


let's take it from the top

by agaunstnazguls



Series: snapshots of a life half lived [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Inspired by Music, Kissing, Light Vomiting, M/M, Mention of Mental Illness, Swearing, bathtub thoughts, bob dylan is mentioned, like LIGHT ageism, mention of hated british politicians, very light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 15:29:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20780867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agaunstnazguls/pseuds/agaunstnazguls
Summary: “That’s not very funny,” Enjolras says.“Agree to disagree,” he replies.





	let's take it from the top

“Hey, man,” Grantaire says. Courfeyrac is barely holding himself upright against the counter, eyes glassy as he stares at the fridge. “Where’s your other toilet again?” 

Courfeyrac mumbles something unintelligible, waving vaguely behind him at the microwave. He’s still staring at the fridge. A post it note is still attached to his head from their game of _ Guess the politician _ earlier, only someone has added ‘fuck the government and fuck’ above _ Boris Johnson. _

“How the fuck are you so drunk?” 

Grantaire spends a lot of time pondering this in relation to his friends. The only people who ever kept up with him throughout the height of his drinking were Bahorel and, surprisingly, Jehan. The others drink a Hooch and end up on the floor, while the three of them would be slamming back as many double vodkas as they could possibly manage until someone was on the floor of the club and someone else had a broken nose. Not that Grantaire would ever go back to that, or encourage his friends to match him in drinking: he was literally an alcoholic. 

He actually left Jehan behind waxing poetic about Emily Dickinson to a bunch of their drunk undergrad friends in the living room. It’s a wonder they end every night standing _ and _make it into their 9ams, but Jehan has always been a mystery. They've always had control of their drinking, opting for the pure thrill of being alive and sitting in the park with bees writing poetry over excessive drinking most nights of the week. Sometimes Grantaire would meet up with them at 3am, still drunk, while Jehan was just getting back from an Astrology Society meeting, and they would go for early morning McDonalds together. 

“Take a hike,” Courfeyrac says, and shoves his shoulder weakly. He tenses up because if he lets himself get pushed, there’s a chance Courfeyrac might fall and never get back up again. 

“Toilet’s down the hall, next to the slashed up picture of Margaret Thatcher,” Combeferre says, appearing so suddenly Grantaire is startled. He holds on to Courfeyrac as the man struggles. “What have I said about starting fights, baby?” Ah, _ baby _. Combeferre is definitely drunker than he seems. His glasses are missing, too. 

“Only start ones I can finish,” he says. “‘And I can! I’ll take Grantaire any day!”

“Bye.”

Grantaire wanders off, ignoring Courfeyrac’s weak attempts to call him back for a fight. 

Most of the parties Courfeyrac throw end in him threatening physical violence against one of his friends, and then crying the moment he’s sober enough to realise he’s being an asshole, so Grantaire would rather leave than witness the waterworks. Especially considering the party is half celebrating their impending wedding. Courfeyrac will spend most of the days leading up to, and then the day of, the wedding, apologising profusely and attempting to return all the gifts Grantaire has gifted him. 

Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s room is obvious: there’s a sticker board mostly comprised of vegetables puns and moths on the outside, and a padlock keeping their en suite closed off from any guests. He pulls open the door next to it, just for fun, and finds it full of clean sheets and towels. So organised, and most definitely Enjolras’s doing. 

Across from that is Enjolras' door-- the massive _to do list _makes that one kind of obvious-- and Grantaire moves on past that one up to the pastel pink door next to the very much slashed up picture of Margaret Thatcher. There’s a hole in the picture that looks like a bullet made it, and half the corner is charred by fire. 

There’s sound filtering through the toilet door, so he knocks; no answer. He pushes open the door and slips inside. 

The violent dance music from the living room is cut off, leaving behind the sound of his breathing and Hayley Williams yelling about the business of misery.

“Oh. Hello.”

Grantaire is unsurprised when he looks at the bath and finds Enjolras sitting in it, fully dressed, with a book in hand. He’s length-ways, back to the small toilet-sink combo taking up the back end of the bathroom. There’s no water in the tub, thankfully, or else Grantaire would be panicking about see through shirts.

Clearly the party is over for Enjolras: hair tied back, little eye makeup removed, and he’s changed into a hoodie and pajama trousers. 

“Would you mind looking away while I piss?”

“Of course.” Enjolras politely pulls on the shower curtain until he's hidden from view, and, presumably, returns to his book. 

He pees, washes his hands. Enjolras is still reading intently when he turns the tap off. Grantaire pulls back the curtain and Enjolras looks up at him. He seems the most relaxed he’s been since taking his new job, which makes Grantaire feel bad about interrupting, but not bad enough to reign himself in. 

“Mind if I join you?” 

Enjolras pulls his knees up to his chest. Grantaire steps into the bath and takes the space left, shuffling until his feet are curled up to the side and he’s somewhat comfortable in the nest of blankets and pillows Enjolras has managed to shove into the tiny space. Immediately, Enjolras stretches his legs back out over Grantaire's lap.

He leans his head against the wall and closes his eyes. 

When he opens them, he’s laying across Enjolras’s chest. The man still has the book open, reading over Grantaire’s head. The music is quieter, but it’s still Paramore playing. There’s a hand in his hair, a light pressure against his scalp, and if Grantaire wasn’t already resting most of his body against Enjolras’s, he would melt. 

“Did I fall asleep?” Grantaire already knows the answer. His throat is dry from snoring and his eyes feel heavy from such a short nap. He’s not sure why he asked, really, just that it’s better than addressing the adrenaline running through his veins at being close enough to Enjolras to smell his fruity scent spray Jehan bought as a joke but ended up growing attached to. 

“Umhm. You were snoring.” Grantaire grimaces. Enjolras smiles, eyes crinkling, and Grantaire’s heart stops. “It’s fine, don’t worry.”

“Parties are draining now I can’t drink to stay awake,” Grantaire admits. He shuffles around so he’s laying more comfortably, pressed into Enjolras’s side. He’s worried about taking up too much space, but Enjolras looks comfortable amongst the pillows, and he has yet to tell Grantaire to fuck off. 

“That’s not very funny,” Enjolras says. 

“Agree to disagree,” he replies. “What are you reading?”

Enjolras dog ears the page. It’s _ Oliver Twist _.

“Oh, neat, Oliver Twist.”

“Yeah. Oliver just got shot,” Enjolras says. 

Grantaire frowns. “I don’t remember Oliver getting shot in the musical.” 

“It’s wild, really, a lot more happens in the book than the musical shows. He's a very sad character, though. His mum literally died moments after he was born,” Enjolras says.

“Tragic. Oliver and I have a lot in common.”

Enjolras snorts. That’s something Grantaire has always liked about Enjolras: they’ll argue to the day they die, but his morbid sense of humour has never deterred Enjolras from laughing if he finds a comment funny. Sure, he’ll call him out on things if they are self deprecating to the point of making a conversation feel like a one-sided therapy session, but once he realised Grantaire rarely took offence to things, except in the most extreme of arguments, they became more comfortable around one another. 

“But really, Enjolras, how are you doing?”

“Well, work’s all right,” he muses. “I’m still shadowing one of the editors and probably will for another few weeks, just until I can start handling smaller projects by myself. Everyone’s been really welcoming, which I think is down to Cosette being absolutely terrifying and also the CEO’s daughter, but what can you do?”

“At least she’s working with you and not against you,” Grantaire says. “She kicked our ass at Pictionary.” Everyone kicks their ass at Pictionary. Grantaire and Enjolras had spent most of the game yelling at each other until Enjolras stormed off to eat half his weight in Buffet food. 

“For an artist you sure are shit at drawing under pressure.” 

Grantaire pouts when Enjolras cackles, throwing his head back. It thunks against the side of the bath and he yelps, making it Grantaire’s turn to laugh. 

After a few moments of silence, just Enjolras adjusting to wrap Grantaire more firmly in a hug, he asks, “So, Paramore, huh?” 

As if on queue, _ Decode _starts playing from Enjolras’s phone. He reaches out a hand to grab it and fumbles for a few moments before it’s firmly in his palm. 

“It says as much about your taste in music that you recognise this song.”

“Incorrect, I just really love _ Twilight.” _

Grantaire manoeuvre around to peer at Enjolras’s screen. His lock screen is a picture of him, Courfeyrac and Combeferre together on graduation day, in their caps and gowns. Grantaire can still remember that party. He got plastered, fought a guy who made a comment at Jehan, and the screaming match he got into with Enjolras the following morning while still hungover ended up being the reason he stopped drinking. 

Enjolras’s background wallpaper brings up less painful memories. 

“Is that my painting?” Grantaire asks. 

Enjolras says nothing, just lets Grantaire continue to look. It was a painting of a deformed daisy that he painted as part of the _ Misunderstood _ exhibition he did for his Masters. He can’t even recall Enjolras _ being _at the exhibition, let alone understand why he would keep it as his phone background so many years after it was put on display.

“If you like the painting, I still have it,” Grantaire says. He doesn’t look at Enjolras, doesn’t finish. He figures the implication is enough for him to get it.

“Oh. Yeah, I’d like that. Grantaire, can I kiss you?”

There’s no lead up to it, which is what throws him. Grantaire doesn’t really know what to say to that, so he just says, “That’s pretty gay.”

He looks up. Enjolras closes his eyes and breathes out through his nose deeply. 

“Sorry, did that annoy you?”

“Everything about you annoys me,” Enjolras says honestly, but he doesn’t move away when Grantaire kisses him. 

The bath is cramped and uncomfortable, the worst possible place for them to be kissing, but it’s very them. They have a thing for bonding in small spaces. 

Grantaire shifts, so he’s above Enjolras. He’s grateful for the pillows now as his elbow digs into one beside Enjolras’s head. Enjolras is making needy little noises beneath him, fingers pressed into Grantaire’s cheek. Grantaire runs his tongue along Enjolras’s, revels in the shiver he gets in response. 

They pull away. Enjolras presses another kiss to his mouth, and then another, small kisses in quick succession, as if he’s afraid to be parted for too long. Grantaire smiles, and then Enjolras is smiling, too, as Grantaire leans down. 

The door to the bathroom flies open. Grantaire pulls back to watch Courfeyrac stumble over to the toilet and begin vomiting into it.

“COMBE- oh, there you are,” Enjolras says as Combeferre walks into the bathroom. 

He looks over the top of his glasses at the two of them, as if he somehow knows what they’ve been up to. He probably does. No, he _ definitely _does, because he’s Combeferre, and he predicted exactly when Montparnasse would propose to Jehan, right down to the time, location and the clothes they would both be wearing, five months before it even happened. All knowing. Even _Jehan _had lost that bet. 

“Sorry to break up the party, but everyone’s gone and Courfeyrac needs some space,” Combeferre says.

“He hasn’t given _ me _space since 1999, he’s not getting shit from me,” Enjolras says. In front of others, Enjolras is reserved in his swearing, although never in his judgement. Grantaire seems to be an exception in his self censorship. 

“Y’all been fucking?” Courfeyrac asks, then gags, sticking his head back in the bowl.

Enjolras huffs. Grantaire struggles to sit up, and accepts Combeferre’s spare hand. He’s now using the other to hold back Courfeyrac’s already short hair, as if it will make any difference. 

Grantaire turns back around to help Enjolras, and is pleasantly surprised when Enjolras steps out the tub and doesn’t let go of his hand. 

“I’ll see you out,” he says. 

“Bye, Courf,” Grantaire says. “See you both at the wedding, yeah?”

“If Courfeyrac wakes up by then, sure,” Combeferre agrees. “Safe journey home.”

Enjolras drags him out of the bathroom, Courfeyrac’s disgusting noises and the soft, soothing voice of Combeferre lost behind them the further down the hall they get. The flat is still a mess, but Enjolras doesn’t even look at it, just accompanies Grantaire to the door and starts rifling around the coats and shoes to locate his. 

“Sorry Courfeyrac is disgusting, he can’t control himself,” Enjolras says, ass in the air as he looks into the box of shoes. “Shit, did you wear your Filas?”

“Filas, yeah,” Grantaire says, eyes preoccupied. 

Enjolras stands and slaps Grantaire’s arm with a shoe. Grantaire hisses, pulls his arm away to cradle it against his chest.

“I will not be objectified like this, I’m more than just a piece of ass.”

“No, your face is also very nice,” Grantaire agrees.

“So is yours,” Enjolras tells him, and that makes Grantaire’s brain halter. Right. They kissed. Is that normal? They’ve only kissed, accidentally, twice before. Actually, making out while they aren’t in a prison cell isn’t a normal thing they do at this point in their relationship, and now Enjolras thinks he’s got a nice face. “You look like a young Bob Dylan, only old. Because you’re what-- thirty-five?”

Grantaire ignores this dig at his age-- he’s twenty eight, _ fuck _you very much-- and frowns. “You can’t just say I look like a young Bob Dylan because we’re both Jewish, you know that, right?”

“No, seriously, I’ve got pictures-” Enjolras pulls out his phone and scrolls until he locates the pictures, tilts the screen towards Grantaire. 

He squints. “How the fuck did you get that picture of me?” He doesn’t even have stubble in the picture, which means it’s from any point before his second year of undergrad when he grew too lazy to shave it off completely. 

“Jehan went through the pictures in your cupboard once and put them in the group chat. You would know, if you hadn’t got yourself kicked out by Eponine.” Grantaire only got kicked out of the group chat for being the only one not terrified to tell Eponine when she’s been a bitch. If he has to give up contact with his friends to continue humbling her, he’s willing to make that sacrifice. “Would you like to go out on a date tomorrow?”

Grantaire blinks. Blinks again. 

“You keep springing things on me, Enjolras,” Grantaire says. “Yeah. Sure. Yeah. Want to go to a gallery?”

Enjolras’s face lights up as if Grantaire was the one who suggested the date. Really, Grantaire should look like that, but all he feels is shock. 

Grantaire pulls his shoes on with shaky hands, not even bothering to tie his laces properly. He’s driving home, anyway. Enjolras helps him pull his jacket on, and then uses the lapels to pull Grantaire in for a long kiss that leaves him breathless.

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.” 

“Sorry about your arm,” Enjolras says. 

  
“Eh, you’ve done worse.” _ You’ll do worse. _

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this because i'm very sad and wanted to feel happy
> 
> this hasn't been beta read
> 
> the title is taken from paramore's 'misery business' 
> 
> my twitter is @/agaunstnazguls come follow me so we can talk about e/R and bts and music stuff!!


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